


A Room of One’s Own

by TheWillowBends



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Dark, F/F, Forced Orgasm, Fuckruary 2021 (Lucifer TV), Fuckruary 2021: Dubcon, Fuckruary 2021: Love is Love, Fuckruary 2021: New Ship, Hell, Hurt No Comfort, Metaphysical Sex, Mindfuck, Torture, Unrequited Love, Violence, Whump, depictions of torture, heed the tags, nonconsensual sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:40:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29392800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWillowBends/pseuds/TheWillowBends
Summary: Among all those in Hell, only Mazikeen of the Lilim has the privilege of holding the whip and shackle for the Goddess of All Creation, at the honor of the command of the king himself.
Relationships: Mazikeen & Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV), Mazikeen/Goddess | Mother of Angels (Lucifer TV), Mazikeen/Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV), Mazikeen/The Goddess of All Creation (Lucifer TV)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 14





	A Room of One’s Own

**Author's Note:**

> This doesn’t feature visceral descriptions of human sexual assault, but it is absolutely not consensual, so please be mindful of the content.

The cell that holds the Goddess of All Creation has no exceptional qualities. Its confines are geometric and spare, formed by the shape She wills it, same as all others here; the chains on the door rattle when She takes to Her fits of madness and rage, but even in this, She is not unique. There are plenty in Hell whose punishment carries the weight of its own knowing. If not for the fact that Her punishment is entrusted solely to the king’s favorite, Mazikeen of the Lilim, there would be nothing of distinction about this door any more than the myriad billion others that line the streets and make the heart of Hell.

When Mazikeen enters, the room is brilliantly lit, filled with Her light. It is the same light that emanates from her liege’s wings in the rare and uncommon moments he reveals them, and their effect is the same: something in her flinches from the sight, and she must hold herself steady until the queasy thread of pain and pleasure runs its course through her. It prickles under her skin, and it is a relief when She finally reins in Her power, though Mazikeen knows it is no mercy.

Today, the Goddess sits waiting for her, Her shape primly circumscript in the echoed silhouette of Her children, rather than the amorphous vision of light and energy to which She sometimes is wont. She sits on a raised throne of veined marble, an apparition summoned from memory and thought. Mazikeen recognizes it for the statement of strength that it is; even here, the Goddess remembers power well enough to construct Her own prison.

But She is, Mazikeen reminds herself, still a prisoner.

“Hello, Mazikeen,” She says, simple and blunt.

“I see you remodeled the place,” she says, taking a few steps into the center of the chamber. Around them, a sky full of stars and nebulas spin lazily in an elegant waltz.

The light seems to bend, refracting at an angle, the way a head may tilt in regard. “Yes, I felt it could use some more imaginative décor. What do you think?”

“I think it won’t help you,” Mazikeen tells her, letting a saccharine cruelty bleed into her words, “though I imagine the memory of greatness is a comfort after the fall.”

Goddess chuckles, a thousand small pinpoint bursts of color fluttering through Her form as She does. “And what would you know about greatness?” She asks.

Mazikeen grinds her teeth but keeps her tongue. The Goddess is tricky, even as she is the most renowned among her brethren for her own cunning. Lucifer orders Her treated like any other soul in Hell; she comforts herself with the thought he trusts none other but her to do it.

“You won’t be so haughty when I’m done with you,” she answers calmly, steel in her voice.

A sound like the tinkling of bells emanates from the center of Her mass. Laughter, perhaps. “And how would you presume to bring me low, child of the pit? You know well that I am impervious to your paltry weapons. Not even those little trinkets you boast of my son gifting you have made so much as a scratch.”

Before she can stop herself, Mazikeen runs a finger over the hilt of her knives, worrying its engraved edge. Goddess must see it because Her energy shifts, darkens, becomes something muddied and impure, if light can be such a thing. Her lips flatten into a thin, unamused line, knowing she has misstepped, but there is always time to regain footing. There is, in fact, time eternal.

Goddess continues to prod at the wound She thinks open. “I do wonder what my son must think of you, sending you here so often on such a fruitless mission.” Her tone is haughty, bored, like all of these visits of hers are mere social calls, unremarkable and thinly tolerated. “You are a loyal dog at his heel, certainly, but even you must tire of failure.”

”And what would you know of loyalty?” Maze asks, twisting the question back on Her.

”I know it won’t afford you the privilege you think,” Goddess answers blithely. “Even the good master only ever offers scraps.”

“I know you think yourself above me,” Mazikeen says thoughtfully, taking a different tack. She makes her way around the room slowly, each step careful and precise, like beats in an unheard rhythm.

“I _am_ above you,” Goddess replies. “I contain infinities beyond your knowing.”

“Sure doesn’t look it from here,” she says casually, and she smiles, curved like her knives, when Goddess has no immediate answer for that. “After all, I am not the one Lucifer keeps locked inside here, refusing any plea for reception.”

There is silence for a few moments, and Mazikeen allows them both to dwell in it. Lucifer had told her once that quietude held within it the heart of misery, a place where no other voices existed to drown out the one inside; silence points the finger when none other are left to accuse. He said this casually, with a kind of intimate and resigned familiarity, as they had stood watching the man from Kerioth hang himself over and over. She remembers it now, having learned the lesson well, like all those he teaches her.

“Nothing to say?”

When she turns on her heel, Goddess has fractured into an amoeba of color and light, drifting in space in a roughly amorphous collective. The throne has disappeared, and Mazikeen watches as the room around them changes, brightens, becomes a gleaming, metallic city full of towering skyscrapers and spires woven together through curious, alien tessellated shapes. She does not recognize it, but if Hell had a sister in opposites, this would be it.

“Do you know what this is?” Goddess asks, Her voice distant and soft - dangerously so, Mazikeen thinks. Her eyes narrow warily.

“I don’t care.”

“This is the Silver City,” Goddess says, ignoring her. “This is where Lucifer’s Father and I built the universe together, where We created our children and raised them up, where We made the worlds upon which your two feet stand.”

“Feeling nostalgic? You’ve come a long way down from there.”

A burst of light ripples through the interior of Goddess’ form, filling the space around them with transient illumination. In the sky above this Silver City, Mazikeen watches the emotion mirrored in a star that streaks across the sky violently.

“This was my home,” She says, fashioning an extension of Her energy into something like an arm, reaching out to brush the walls with fingers of light. It dispels the illusion momentarily, showing the black face of a stone wall. Goddess seems to flinch back, but before Maze can press her advantage, She asks, “Do you know what a home is, Mazikeen?”

Gesturing widely, she answers, “You’re in mine right now. Charming, isn’t it?”

“Hell isn’t a home,” Goddess says bluntly, laughing a little, though the sound is bitter rather than mocking. “Hell is the place you put things that are broken, the place where you no longer have to look at it and know that you broke it.”

Mazikeen shrugs. “It serves my kind well enough.”

“It would, wouldn’t it? The children of Lilim, cast down by their own mother to be fashioned into whatever weapon my son would make them.” Goddess sighs, a sound tonally layered that sparks electric color filtering through Her. “I suppose if you’ve never known otherwise, you would mistake a prison for a home.”

Fury burns in Mazikeen’s gut, rippling through her, and it is an effort to keep her voice steady as she straightens and replies. “I’m not the one imprisoned here.”

“Are you? What do you know of the world beyond Hell? What is your world but a locked door and a king’s command?”

“Watch it.”

“Or what?” Goddess says with a harsh laugh. “You’ll _punish_ me?”

“You _bitch_ \- “

Lucifer has warned her, time and time again, that her anger is her enemy, that it makes her flighty and impetuous, acting in haste and doing more harm than good. He has tried to teach her this lesson repeatedly, standing over her with a look that is both lofty and disdainful, when he finds her kneeling before him bleeding or bruised. It is the lesson that will not stick, no matter how often he has raised a hand to her or sent a sharp word her way, no matter how much she has tried to push it down to become something more than what she is, what he wills her to be.

Her anger is why Goddess catches her off guard, Her movements so sudden and swift it bowls Mazikeen right over as She slams into her. Mazikeen hits the ground hard, her jaw cracking as it strikes the floor, and she comes up spitting blood and screaming rage, knife in hand, but it does nothing as Goddess encircles her in a cocoon of raw energy. Within moments, she is engulfed.

She shrieks as electric sparks bite at her skin, burning hotly, and terror wells up inside her, filling her with blind desperation as she scrabbles for purchase or hold where there is none. The weight of her own stupidity and arrogance burns like bile in the gut; this is the Goddess of all Creation, the one who lit the universe with light and energy, and as Mazikeen burns and burns and wishes to die, she cannot understand how she ever forgot that.

But then it stops.

The heat that burns her flesh eases off, gentles, until it merely warms and soothes. Distantly, she can hear a voice crooning, encouraging her to calm. It frightens her more than the pain.

“Hush now,” Goddess whispers, the words echoing in this confined space She has made for Them. Tendrils of light extend from Her body to wrap around Mazikeen’s, stroking her face and pressing against the hollow of her throat where her heart beats a rapid, frantic rhythm.

“This is how I held my children when they were first made,” She comments idly, and Mazikeen squirms, trying to escape, but Goddess holds her fast. “Now, now, don’t fight it. It will be much easier on you.”

“Stop,” Mazikeen begs and hates herself for it. She can feel energy thrumming through her, energy that is not hers.

“Do you really want me to?” Goddess asks, and before Mazikeen can answer, the bright light around her rapidly increases in intensity, blinding her.

She cries out as it consumes her, and she can feel it pushing into her, catching fire under her skin, silencing the voice that cries out in pain, and worst of all, warming a place in her belly that, until now, only Lucifer has managed to awaken in her. The sensation makes her queasy, and she tastes bile in her throat, even as she gasps, her whole body a livewire that tenses under Goddess’ touch.

Something is tickling along her thoughts, poking at them with a needle-fine edge, and Mazikeen realizes in horror that, too, is Goddess, and she trembles as She combs through her memories and thoughts, all of the tiny, fractured pieces that make her.

“Oh, what do we have here?” She says but no further elucidates what piques Her interest. Maze struggles weakly, her hatred burning hotter with every breath she takes.

Goddess hums, the sound thrumming through Her mass, the vibration carrying through to Maze. It sharpens the edge of the pleasure building hatefully in her belly. Her struggles are meaningless, though. Even here, crushed beneath the heel of Hell, Goddess is still powerful.

“A curious thing, to make a child without a soul,” Goddess says idly, the tongues of Her power licking along the lines of her body and mind. “I would never do such a thing to one of mine.”

Finally, Mazikeen finds her voice, choking out, “Yet here you are.”

“Yes,” She says, “here I am.”

There is a pause, like the great trembling of the earth before it was made, and then Goddess makes Her strike, pushing Her Will into Mazikeen, filling her top to bottom with energy that burns not in a way that harms but which fills her with such pleasure beyond her imagining that she cannot contain it. Gasping, she arches, hips undulating, as her body tears into orgasm, the shockwaves pulsing from her center and out, filling her with warmth and lassitude, but there is no peace. Goddess will not let her have it.

Deeper, She pushes, finding that hollow space in her where a soul should be. There She lingers for a moment, and Maze can feel the ember of Her being smoldering deep in her chest. Something flickers, igniting weakly, like a poorly started flame, but it crackles with energy, and then - _something_ , pouring out like blood once the knife is pulled free.

Mazikeen whimpers as a feeling for which she has no words or knowing fills her up, fuller and fuller, until her cup runneth over, but Goddess does not relent, tethered to her tightly, forcing her to feel wholly every second of this punishment. There is no mercy left in Her, if ever She had it.

How long they hold there, Mazikeen has no idea. Time is slippery in Hell, stumbling and stuttering along like the broken gears of a clock, and it is only long after Goddess has withdrawn and left her alone and trembling that she comes back to herself. It is longer still until she can uncurl from the fetal shape she makes, small and pathetic on the floor, under the callous and watchful eyes of a Goddess to whom she is nothing.

Mazikeen stumbles to her feet, her knife clattering to the floor. Her knees wobble as she picks it up, and it is only by force of will that she makes herself steady on her feet. When she looks up, the room is dark, bare stone and mortar, and Goddess sits in the vague shape of a woman in a simple chair, waiting for her.

She takes one step forward unsteadily, raising her knife. Words form in her mind, but they slip on her tongue, unable to take shape. She feels unbalanced and shaky, the way a boat lists when it takes on water. When she finally finds her voice, she cannot stop the tremor that weakens any authority in her tone.

“What did you do to me?”

“I gave you what you wanted.”

“I want _nothing_ from you,” Mazikeen snarls.

“Nothing that you could understand you wanted,” She says evenly, as flames ripple along Her outline.

“I’ll tell Lucifer - “

“You’ll tell Lucifer - what?” Goddess asks, light oscillating in waves through Her. “Will you tell him I overpowered you? That you aren’t able to do the job he requests of you - and only of you, as you often enjoy boasting?” She leans forward, speaking lowly. “Whatever will he think when he finds his most _trusted_ demon cannot fulfill his commands? Who do you think it will be that replaces you?”

Mazikeen shivers before she can help it. She sets her jaw hard, gritting her teeth. Everything in her speaks to want of violence; she wants to rend and tear the world apart, but all she has is her knives, and she knows already they cannot touch Her.

Goddess is waiting for her answer, and Mazikeen knows that She knows there isn’t one, not any that could satisfy. Twirling her knife once, she reluctantly sheathes it, forcing her hand steady as it shakes.

“I’ll be back for you later,” she says sharply, then turns to leave.

“I am certain you will,” Goddess replies.

The echo of her footsteps are her only companion until she reaches the door, but as she reaches for the handle, Goddess calls out to her. Mazikeen freezes, so much like a rabbit that she hates herself for it. It is an effort to turn and face Her.

“What do you want?”

Goddess looks at her without eyes and speaks without fear, “He will never love you, you realize.”

Mazikeen balks. “What the Hell are you talking about?”

“That is the name for what you feel when he touches you, the name for the hollow place your mother left inside you.” She tilts Her simulacron of a face, and, strangely, there is no triumph in Her voice when She says, “Nip at his heels as long as you like, but he cannot love you. There is none left in him. His Father has scoured his heart clean of it.”

Maze looks at Her a long moment, licking her lips, her tongue made stupid again by another question she dares not ask for an answer she does not want. Swiftly, she turns on her heel, and this time she does not pause before she opens the door and slams it shut, resetting the locks and chains with haste.

Afterward, she stands for a long time staring at the door, her breaths heavy and hard in her chest. Something tightens like a knot inside her, and it takes tensing every muscle in her body to keep herself from trembling. She has not cried since she was small, and she will not break for anyone, not even the Goddess of all Creation. When she finally catches her breath and turns to the endless footpaths of Hell, it is a relief to find herself alone.

Despite Lucifer’s orders, she does not return to the palace, not at first. Instead, she finds herself in the room with the man from Kerioth, watching him tie the noose over and over, the perfect circle looping back on itself, until she jumps in to help. It is there Lucifer finds her kneeling over him, her knives at hand and bloody.

“You were ordered to return once you were done with the Goddess,” he says, and his tone is imperious and hard enough that she bows her head deferentially. At times, he finds her stubborn and flippant tongue amusing, but his expression speaks of an ire he rarely directs her way. Any talk of Goddess has a tendency to put him in a mood.

“I am sorry, my Lord,” she says, keeping her eyes down. “The Goddess was...difficult today, and I needed to blow off steam.”

“I will forgive it this once,” he says sternly, “but do not disappoint me again.”

She nods, then slowly rises to her feet. The man at her feet stirs, awakening to his unending nightmare. Quietly, she moves from him, leaving him to the prison he built for himself. Lucifer sniffs in disdain as he watches the man trembling, his fingers fumbling inexpertly as he tries to form the knot, no matter how many times he has done it before.

“Of all places, this is not where I expected to find you. It took quite some time and interrogation to locate it. A strange place to catch your fancy, is it not?”

“It is merely by chance,” she assures. She tries not to think of the last time she was here with him, when he had looked upon her work with pleased approval, how later he had spoken to her fondly over wine and touched her face with such uncommon gentleness that she had flinched for the strangeness of it.

“Come now, we shall return to the palace. There you will inform me of what trouble my unrepentant wretch of a Mother has made now.”

They make their way back, and she reports dutifully of Goddess’ continued recalcitrance as he sips wine that makes his mouth curl in disgust. Mazikeen is honest with her king, as she always is, right up until she reaches the part where Goddess had shown her the vision of the Silver City. Here, she stutters, tripping over the minefield of her memory. Lucifer raises an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue, prompting her after a moment with a gesture.

“Well, out with it, Maze! Do not keep me waiting here all evening.”

Mazikeen hesitates, feels the taste of something familiar but uncertain on her tongue, and she realizes it is a lie, the first she will ever tell him. “The Goddess...seemed upset.”

“Yes, and…?”

“She does not wish to speak with me. She wants to speak with _you._ ”

He scoffs, and the laugh that follows is harsh. “Of course She would, would She not? Of course, now that it is too late, She expects _my_ mercy absent any of Her own.” He waves a hand dismissively, draining his cup. “Enough about my Mother. Let Her rot in the prison She made Herself. We will retire for the evening.”

Mazikeen nods, eager to abandon all talk of Heaven’s former matriarch. When he gestures for her to follow, she does, close at his heels as they walk the long passage up to the palace spire. When he takes her in his arms, unfurling his wings, she understands his plans for her and presses to him willingly.

In his rooms he undresses them both with quick, efficient moments, his mouth hot and demanding against hers. She responds to him with the passion he inspires in her always, the hunger rooted in her belly that never seems satisfied, no matter how thoroughly he uses her. They stay entangled well into the night, until she is aching and sore, and then more until he decides he is done with her.

But later, when he lies sleeping beside her, afforded the rare privilege of sharing his bed, she turns restlessly, her mind racing along pathways unseen and unwalked, lost somewhere in the great expanse of a nothingness before her where the Goddess’ mocking voices echoes in her memory. Inside her, something trembles uncertainly, like a flame that will not catch, and it is a long time before she finds sleep.

In her dreams, she walks along a footpath of dirt and brambles, through a garden lush and verdant, something she has seen only in the rooms of the damned and never with her own eyes. Along the path, trees stretch their limbs overhead, ripe and laden with fruits that bow the branches from which they hang. She plucks at them greedily, filling her arms with bunches of them, biting each one with a tongue that longs for the taste of sweetness, but no matter how many she eats, it never fills her up, each one leaving her emptier than the last.

She wakes up crying and doesn’t know why.


End file.
